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59
MILA
I’D ONCE THOUGHT RONAN WOULD let me drown; that he would watch me sink, curly hair floating and aglow. But in the end, it was his voice that dragged me fromthe darkness.“Prosnis’, Mila.” Wake up. “Goddammit, prosnis’.”Ronan had demanded so much fromme since we met—so many orders he was confident would be met—but this request held a vulnerable crack. It wasn’t a demand at all. It was a need.I found another weakness. He was weak for me.Drawing in a shallow breath, I struggled to open my eyes. I forced themopen and saw I was lying on the floor of a moving car that vibrated beneath me. Yellow and red. My new coat was ruined, the faux fur matted with streaks of blood. Crimson-soaked bandages lay discarded around me. My shirt was torn open, and the sight of the hole gushing blood in my stomach made me so dizzy I was almost pulled under again. Though Ronan’s voice as he snapped something at Albert grounded me.My eyes lifted to Ronan, who rippedRelated chapters
Lost in Moscow's Secret 60
THE GUNSHOT WOUND IN MY arm throbbed and bled through my shirt. I must have busted some stitches open when I punched Alexei. And then Albert, who simply opened the car door for me after Mila dismissed me from her life. I didn’t know how to get rid of this irritable, edgy sensation beneath my skin besides violence—and even that didn’t release the tight, hollow ache in my chest.It felt like she was stealing something fromme. Pain I could stand.Robbery I could not.“I flew back for ‘important’business just to watch you silently muse on all your life choices,” my brother said in Russian, sitting on my office couch. “Care to share?”I didn’t know how to explain the feeling in any other way, so I sat back in my chair and said, “She stole fromme.”He raised a brow. “Your pet?” “Her name is Mila,” I growled.Kristian sipped the vodka in his glass, trying to conceal a smile. “So what’d she take? You do have some nice crystal glasses.”
Lost in Moscow's Secret 61
MILA I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN IT wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of Ronan. He might not be in the hospital room with me physically, but his presence was everywhere. After the doctors examined me, I often thought they rushed out of the room, phones to their ears, to update himon my condition. Only D’yavol would receive that sort of hasty, nervous response. The first conscious day in the hospital, a boy delivered a mini fridge full of vegan meals, a bag of dog food, and a note. Eat. —Ronan I would have rolled my eyes at the demand a couple of weeks ago, but this time, it brought a smile to my lips and a throb to my heart. Ronan had pulled some strings threatened someone to allow Khaos to stay with me, and I knew it because a dog’s portrait in the universal red no-entry sign decorated the wall outside my room. The gesture filled me with relief, because I didn’t think I could handle being alone with my thoughts right now. Khaos was the
Lost in Moscow's Secret 62
ITOOK A LYFT RIDE to pick up Khaos on my way to The Moorings. Sweet Emma’s hair was sticking out in every direction when she calmly told me, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for him.”Khaos came to sit by my side, acting as innocent as could be, but one of the cats shooting a glare at himwas missing a large tuft of fur.I apologized profusely, feeling awful for leaving Khaos with Emma. Though I knew he wouldn’t do well in a boarding kennel. I had no idea what to do with himthe next time I had to leave, but I had two weeks to think about it before my next international shoot in Jamaica.On the way to The Moorings, I thought of Madame Richie and her stupid tarot card. I mentally tried to figure out the odds of her drawing that card. I imagined all kinds of crazy ideas—like she’d watched me frombehind trees for years and then played The Devil to unsettle me.Frustrated with my musings, I exhaled and told myself it was just a coincidence. A freaky coi
Lost in Moscow's Secret 63
MILAEIGHT HOURS LATER, I GLANCED out the window of the private jet. “Ronan . . . did Moscow get an Eiffel Tower of its own recently?” “I would never allow that kind of romantic tourismin my city.” “Huh,” I mused. “So why amI seeing the Eiffel Tower right now?” “We’re in Paris,” he said indifferently. And that had been his attitude the entire flight: indifferent. He and those stupid “Delicious!” sounds coming from his phone were driving me crazy. Albert wasn’t any better company. He was flipping through a Cosmo in the row of seats at the front of the plane. I hadn’t seen Ronan in four months. I’d been burning up for eight hours waiting for him to touch me, kiss me, and drag me to the convenient bed in the back. But he hadn’t done any of that. When I got tired of waiting, I’d straddled his lap, ran my lips down his neck, and cupped his erection as it grew harder beneath my hand. I thought I was finally going to get what I wanted, but then he shoved me off
Lost in Moscow's Secret 1
MILABREATH RAGGED FROM THE RUN, I dropped my heels on the grass and padded barefoot across our manicured lawn, not stopping until I’d climbed onto the rocky embankment and felt the cool waves lapping at my toes and the hem of my evening dress. I panted as sweat glistened on my skin beneath the heavy moon. Agentle breeze tousled my long hair, rustling the palmtrees and my lacy cap sleeves, but the paradise constrained me as tightly as the Dior belt around my waist.The five-mile run wasn’t enough to shake the combustible feeling that expanded inside—though, as always, the sea held me back.I itched to rip the pearls from my neck, to tear my dress to shreds like Cinderella’s stepsisters had, but doing so would demolish a facade I’d maintained for so long I wasn’t sure what lay beneath. So, instead, I dug my French-tipped nails into my palms.There had to be more than this, more than a world behind The Moorings’ gates, but the desire for more than a life of opulence inflated a kernel of
Lost in Moscow's Secret 2
MILAI WADED IN A PILE of clothes, half-bohemian, half-sophisticated socialite. The former, I felt compelled to buy but never wore. Papa seemed quietly disapproving of anything yellow and nonconformist, and I took peace signs seriously.Until now, apparently, as I packed colors brighter than the sun into an old cheerleading duffle bag. I wasn’t home free of The Moorings yet, so I dressed the part in a loose blouse, checker-printcigarette pants, and white ankle boots. I caught my reflection in the mirror: a taller, less-pink version of Elle Woods in Legally Blonde staring back.On my way to the door, I stopped to unclasp my pearl necklace and dropped it into my jewelry box. Then, I wound up the ballerina, setting her on a lonely pirouette, before I tiptoed down the stairs at three a.m.Passing Ivan’s bedroomdoor, I stilled when a very feminine moan sounded on the other side. Ivan wasn’t a Don Juan, but neither was he celibate. Sometimes, during my papa’s absences, I’d come down to br
Lost in Moscow's Secret 3
MILA AS THE DEADBOLT LOCKED INTO place, I wondered what happened to good ol’Russian hospitality. They hadn’t even offered me anything to eat. Practically blasphemous, I’d learned from growing up in a Russian household, especially froma couple who seemed very in touch with their religious side.With the weight of my papa’s secret sitting heavy on my heart and the obvious fact I wasn’t welcome here, a pathetic part of me wanted to listen and just go home. But if I returned now . . .I’d dream. I’d wonder.I’d carry on existing.And I wanted to live for a change. Just for a few days. Before The Moorings sucked me back into its passionless hole. Before I married Carter Kingston, had two-point-five kids, and drowned in social luncheons, pastel-colored cardigans, and ropes of pearls.The iron gate swung back and forth in the icy breeze. Squeeaak.Clank. Squeeaak. Clank.I slipped my duffle bag over my shoulder,
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RUSSIAN VOICES, ONE CONCERNED, ONE rough and low, crept into my subconscious. Papa only spoke fluent Russian when he had Russian guests over, but why were they in my room?It was weird. And rude.I sighed, reaching to pull the sheets over my head to shut out the noise. Instead, my hand slid over the familiar feel of one of my papa’s suit jackets, wool and cashmere. But something was different. This one smelled like pine and cinnamon with a hint of cigar smoke. There was something very unfatherly about the scent, and it was what convinced me to open my eyes.I groaned as a sharp pain shot through my skull.“Khorosho, ty vstala,” a silver-haired man said, pulling a high-back leather chair from a large mahogany desk toward me. Square-framed glasses. White button-up. Black slacks. A cold sweat spread through me as I stared at the stethoscope around his neck.Some people had nightmares about falling, or public nudity, or ghosts. Mine was wakin
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